


Sex With A Ghost

by galacticlyss (CosmicallyLyss)



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Choking, Coming Untouched, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Dom/sub Undertones, Dream is dead before the fic starts, Dream is not real, Edging, Finger Sucking, George is basically hallucinating Dream's ghost, Ghost!Dream, Hallucinations, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, I am so so so sorry for whatever the hell this is, Inpsired by the song Sex With A Ghost, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Minecraft, Minecraft Manhunt, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, So technically it isn't major character death, Spit As Lube, Sub George (Video Blogging RPF), The Author Regrets Everything, This is cursed, Verbal Humiliation, because no actual ghostfucking is taking place, but that tag is misleading, no beta we die like george in manhunt, okay i wrote out the death scene so i am tagging with mcd, so like not real life, takes place in a minecraft manhunt au, this is not spectrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28637643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicallyLyss/pseuds/galacticlyss
Summary: " “Dream?” George calls his name out into the air, and the rustling of the leaves he can hear through the thin windows make him believe that his calls are being answered. “Dream…” With each chant of Dream’s name that passes through his lips, the picture of him in George’s mind becomes clearer and clearer. He can start to visualize the man’s freckles in high definition, look at his sunkissed skin and the regal glow he exudes… George opens his eyes, and the mirage stays for a few moments, translucent, sure, but it’s visible. The heartbreaking joy he experiences from the flash of Dream is worth far more than the guilt that plagues to overtake his senses. The small cabin is filled with air that’s stale, arid, and tastes a little dusty, and George can feel his mouth dry out when he opens it again to call out “Dream, please, I see you-” "In other words, George is feeling guilty about causing his lover's death. He can't seem to cope with the fact that Dream is gone, and makes one last attempt to try and keep Dream's memory with him. George can even see him like this - or so he thinks...
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 50





	Sex With A Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most cursed thing I have ever written??? idk man listen to the song sex with a ghost for some context- and uhh i feel like i should give a potential cw for derealization/depersonalization??? the facts of the story: dream is dead before the start of the fic, and george is hallucinating his ghost. dream is not real. george, who is real, starts to believe dream is real in the form of a ghost, but that ghost doesn't exist.
> 
> anyway ! i can't even try to speak for myself;;; i can not defend myself.... if there are any dnf fans that like the heavier and more morbid stuff,,,, this is for you!

It’s been two days. Two days and seven hours. Two days and seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. George couldn’t determine the exact time down to the second, because his tears were blurring his vision as Dream had bled out in front of him, and he couldn’t see the second hand of his watch through the water in his eyes. All he knows is two days, seven hours, and thirty-nine minutes. (Forty minutes, now.) Two days, seven hours, forty minutes, and the fact that he hasn’t slept and hasn’t eaten and hasn’t stopped crying.

The crying is a sort of constant precipitation. At the very moment where Dream’s heart had stopped beating, it was a downpour, a thunderstorm. It was loud as it was violent. George’s anguished sobs had been the thunderclaps and the way his body convulsed with guilt and shame had been electrifying lightning strikes. The first night had been a mere drizzle. It was sad, it was pathetic, it was all that George could produce from his overworked tear ducts. The atmosphere smelled vaguely of petrichor and acid, the calming sweetness interrupted by putrid lethality. And it had been every sort of rain in between. When the temperature dropped for the first time in months, it was bone-chilling. The world had realized it had lost one of its best, and it was lamenting the loss, growing cold and desolate. So George’s tears became snow, became sleet, became hail. Drops of ice that froze his pale skin on contact. His eyes are swollen, his lips chapped, his nose red. George feels like Dream isn’t the only one dead of the two of them with how he can feel himself slowly deteriorate.

Sapnap is lonely. For the past few days, he’s been living in an abandoned village with a population of three: himself, George, and Dream’s rotting corpse George had tried to bury in a hastily dug hole two feet into the ground. He hasn’t heard a word from George in the two days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes. He’s heard the agonized wailing through the thin walls of one of the houses, of course, but no words. When he opened the door of the cottage George had claimed as his own to give him a plate of food and half-full canteen of water, he’d heard nothing more than pained sniffling from the dark corner of the room George was curled up in. George was a mess; his hair had been a rat’s nest, his unchanged clothes were soiled with dirt and blood, and the bags under his eyes were as dark and deep as night. George doesn’t know how long ago Sapnap had offered the food, that’s not the time duration he cares about - two days, seven hours, forty-eight minutes. He’s aware that one of the slices of bread has started growing mold spots, though.

George isn’t sure why Sapnap had offered him any sustenance. He doesn’t deserve it. It had been his own actions that had led directly to Dream’s death. His lover’s death. If he hadn’t shot the man directly in his Achilles tendon, the blonde wouldn’t have needed to slow his sprinting to a lopsided jog before stopping entirely in a frantic need to tend to the crippling wound. And Sapnap wouldn’t have snuck up behind him and successfully thrust his gleaming pickaxe through Dream’s throat. George had watched it all go down from his sniping spot perched in a spruce tree, and he hasn’t stopped replaying the moment in his mind. There was a sick squelching noise as the head of the pickaxe burst through Dream’s throat, the tapered blade piercing through where his Adam’s apple pushed against his skin. Blood had started to drip from the wound, but the pickaxe filling the hole it had created stopped it from gushing out. That was only a temporary relief, though, and the moment Sapnap had pulled the tool back out of Dream’s body, the blonde’s blood rushed out of his throat in spurts. It was a waterfall of hot scarlet, frothy and never-ending. The unrelenting rush of blood didn’t stop when George had screamed for it to cease. It didn’t stop when George leapt down from the tree, landing awkwardly on his ankle and sprinting forward, quickening his pace as he barrelled towards Dream in an attempt to save him from the pre-written fate. It didn’t stop when George had pressed his hands against Dream’s throat to try and manually quell the blood flow. The fluid had been hot against George’s skin, runny and sticky, and the metallic smell was so pungent and overpowering, he could have sworn he’d been chewing on iron. He hadn’t been able to tell if he’d been helping Dream or hurting him further. Had he been slowing his death, or sending him to a quicker one?

Dream’s eyes had been the one thing left unchanged about him in his last moments. His strength had been ripped from him, his words unable to pass through vocal cords and a mouth flooded with his own blood… Those emerald eyes, though, and how they gazed at George as if the shorter man held the sun, strung up the moon, and decorated the sky with stars, were still there. George had watched as the light faded from those eyes, had seen the emerald pale to something dull, something mossy - something dead. Dream’s eyes had glazed over, seemingly content to stare endlessly into nothing; he’d never look at George again, instead just look through him straight into the abyss. George’s bloody hands peeled away from Dream’s neck with a sticky sound only congealing blood could produce, and he used two trembling fingers to close Dream’s eyes to the world. They no longer deserved to be called Dream’s eyes, George had thought. They were his eyes in his body, but they were missing the mirth and the mischief and the adoration for George, those traits faded in tandem with Dream’s heartbeat.

George had used his shovel until it broke to dig a hole to bury Dream’s body in, but the darkness, his exhaustion, his tearful shakes, and his twisted ankle didn’t combine well. Dream had been left to slowly rot away in a hole two feet deep, barely under the surface of the ground. When George had walked past the burial spot the following day, he had sworn he saw strands of Dream’s golden hair glinting in the sunlight. It had become a common theme for George to spot glimpses of Dream as he nursed his sprain back to health, but as the hours went by, the opportunities in which he could pull Dream back to the forefront of his memory became more and more sparse. Now, as he glares at the plate slid under the wood door, his stomach growling and trying to alert George to feed the ravenous beast that his stomach was becoming, George is starting to forget. What exactly did Dream’s voice sound like? What did his hands feel like as they ruffled George’s hair and pulled him up from the ground when Dream had come out victorious in a scuffle they had? The comforting mix of pine and lime Dream had smelled like… George’s memory of it is becoming as bloodstained as Dream himself had been. George had taken a few possessions from Dream’s body before he attempted to bury the younger man, and he hasn’t let go of them since he’d clutched onto them. A diamond knife that Dream carried around for safekeeping - crafted with some wood and the blade of a hoe - was tucked safely into one of the belt loops of George’s dirty jeans, and the infamous mask the vigilante had worn was strapped tightly around George’s wrist. The man had lifted it to his nose occasionally, trying to glean something from it that wasn’t dirt or blood, but all his attempts had lacked success. Dream was fading, despite how desperately George needed him to stay.

He had tried everything. Limping, he had traveled to Dream’s burial site, contemplating digging him up to say his final goodbyes. He had traveled across treetops where he’d nce chased Dream across in the hopes of seeing a mirage of him through the birch leaves. He had even traveled to a lava pool where the remnants of a Nether portal remained, leaning over the molten substance and nearly burning his face - it hurt, of course it fucking hurt, but it was something Dream had done to him during one of their first encounters. He’d held both of George’s hands behind his back by clasping both of his slender wrists in just one of his hands, and had used the other hand to grip George’s short hair and hold his head down over the lava. He hadn’t let up until George’s forehead and cheek had been marred with first degree burns. Over the next few weeks, where George had been healing, they danced around each other in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, constantly evading each other. George had woken up to little gifts next to his pillow in those weeks, healing potions and burn cream, and even an apology note -  _ it was never my intention to hurt you like that. i just wanted to scare you. _ George had begun to stop running away from Dream, and instead sought him out. They’d gone from chasing each other away to chasing each other down, and they’d fallen in love. George can remember where Dream had first kissed him, on the base of a mountain before the blonde jumped down into a ravine. George had traveled there, too, hobbling along on shaky knees from an empty stomach, to try and remember  _ how _ Dream had kissed him, but it was a fruitless effort.

Dream was fading, but he had tried everything.

_ Everything. _

Almost.

George’s tired gaze moves from the food to the unused single bed and an unidentified density in the air starts to weigh down his shoulders. His and Dream’s relationship… It had escalated fairly quickly after their first kiss. George’s most vivid memories of Dream are from the times when they snuck into an abandoned village at night, fighting off any mobs that threatened their safety, and pushed two single beds together, falling down on top of the stiff mattresses. George can remember the way Dream’s hands gripped his hips roughly and pinned them hard against the bedsheets. He can remember tracing his fingers over small oval-shaped bruises the following morning. He can remember the searing heat of Dream’s mouth on his skin and the sharp pain in his lower body the days after. Those memories… That’s when George sees Dream as the man he once knew. That’s when George sees him smirking and energetic and alive.  _ Alive. _ Not a bloody husk of the man he once was. The only red he sees on Dream’s throat in  _ these _ memories comes from hickies he gave the blonde himself, not from Dream’s own deep ruby blood pouring from the hole Sapnap had hacked into it. It’s something shameful, and George knows it. The only way he can think about his lover without seeing Dream’s features devolve into that of his grotesque corpse are when he’s thinking of how Dream treats him rough and commanding in bed.

It’s shameful, it makes George’s blood go aflame with sharp pangs of guilt. He doesn’t deserve to think about those memories full of vitality when he’s the person for Dream’s life being stripped away. But… Dream used to always whisper low into George’s ears about how shameless he was every time he drilled the older man into the mattress, so…maybe it would be forgivable? George doesn’t have enough energy to stand up and walk towards the pristine bed, and he hasn’t done anything to heal up his ankle, so crawling will have to make do. It feels like it takes eons for him to reach the bedposts, moving slow on shivering arms and knocking knees. He uses nearly all of his strength to pull himself on top of the bed, sinking into the untouched mattress. His back hits the stiff material, and his head crashes down against the soft pillow. It’s cool to the touch, regulating the temperature of his flushed skin where the pillow touches him. His eyes close, because it’s too much work to keep them open, and a flash of white teeth follows him into the darkness.  _ Dream. _ At least parts of him are returning to George just by positioning himself like this… So if he does more…

“Dream?” George calls his name out into the air, and the rustling of the leaves he can hear through the thin windows make him believe that his calls are being answered. “Dream…” With each chant of Dream’s name that passes through his lips, the picture of him in George’s mind becomes clearer and clearer. He can start to visualize the man’s freckles in high definition, look at his sunkissed skin and the regal glow he exudes… George opens his eyes, and the mirage stays for a few moments, translucent, sure, but it’s visible. The heartbreaking joy he experiences from the flash of Dream is worth far more than the guilt that plagues to overtake his senses. The small cabin is filled with air that’s stale, arid, and tastes a little dusty, and George can feel his mouth dry out when he opens it again to call out “Dream, please, I see you-”

The visions are fading; Dream is so close but he’s so out of reach, and it’s ripping George apart from the inside out. He can’t shift around that easy in exhausted delirium and with a busted ankle, so he’s forced to move gingerly as he sits up to remove his dirty blue shirt. He weighs over what his best option would be in terms of his pants, knowing it’d be a bitch to slide the pant leg off his ankle but knowing he  _ needs _ to be freed from any sort of restriction. He’ll take the temporary pain, he decides - it’s not like George doesn’t like it - and eases his denim jeans off of his body. His socks and shoes have been sitting at the bedside like a loyal pet waiting for the next time George will put them to use; that same spot is where he drops his clothing. The floor is dirty, his clothes are dirty,  _ he’s _ dirty, god, he’s disgusting and vile and reproachful and he’s craving for another sign of Dream to return to him.

Goosebumps rise on his skin where his long fingers travel over them, drawing patterns over the pale expanse of his chest in the same way that Dream used to. He traces Dream’s name over his skin, first with the soft pad of his fingertip, and then with the edge of a jagged, bitten nail. In the places where the nail presses in a bit too hard into his sensitive flesh, angry red lines are left in its wake. He belongs to Dream, he misses the handful of nights where he’d wake up next to the man’s warm body, and he laments the fact that his actions are the reason he’ll never feel that warmth again. Nobody else would be able to tell that the random assortment of scratches on George’s abdomen was a hasty attempt at scrawling  _ ‘DREAM’ _ but it didn’t matter to anyone else. George cared about it, and so did Dream. Dream, who was becoming clearer by the second in George’s mind. George could see the smile become part of a face, a face that grew a body and hair, a form whose fuzzy edges were starting to become clear. George’s hand travels lower down his body until his palm covers the front of his boxers, and his legs fall open with a practiced ease. He can see Dream so clearly, and the emotional toll it takes on him leaves the brunette in tears. The way Dream looks down at him from the foot of the bed, somewhere between unimpressed and revolted… George feels butterflies in every extremity of his body. “Dream-”

_ You’re filthy, you know that? _ That’s Dream’s voice. That’s  _ Dream’s _ voice George is hearing. With each venomous word that passes his lips, the outlines of his body sharpen. George’s mouth falls open in shock - this is working, he’s getting Dream back, it’s humiliating and it’ll feel so wrong looking back on it, but that’s a problem for another time. Dream is here, he’s here, George can see him, Dream is here.  _ You think you have the right to get off to me? _ George responds with a whine, palm pressing down with bruising pressure.  _ You’re touching what’s mine, George. _ George knows Dream is right, knows that he’s disobeying one of the only orders Dream had set for him: that his body was Dream’s to touch, to play with. But… The disobedience feels so good, and - bile rises in his throat as the thought dawns on him - it’s not like Dream can actually stop him.  _ And now you’re thinking I can’t stop you? _ There’s a low, evil sort of laughter bouncing off the wooden walls.  _ Just because you killed me doesn’t mean you broke out of my control. _

“I-” George stammers, the heel of his hand stuttering down painfully over his aching erection. It hurts, it hurts so good, it hurts so bad, he deserves this. “I didn’t kill y-”

_ Shut your mouth. _ Dream barks out the order and George nods, using the hand that isn’t roughly palming himself to smother his mouth, manually blocking any sound from coming out. His hips twitch up from the mattress, bucking up into his hand to relieve some of the aching, seeking out delicious friction.  _ You were the reason I died. _

“T-Tried to save you…” George rips his hand away from his boxers and thrusts up into nothing. His hand moves back up his body, he drags his fingers over his chest slowly until they reach his mouth. His tongue leaves the safety of his mouth to slick the pads of his thumb and index finger up with saliva, and he starts to use the wet fingers to tease at his nipples until they harden as a result of the air hitting the wet skin. He can’t go too crazy, he can’t do too much, he can’t push himself over the edge. He can’t lose Dream, not now. “Stop the bleeding…”

_ You thought you were helping? _ There’s a derisive nature to Dream’s tone; he’s being so condescending towards George. The shorter man doesn’t know the last time Dream has been like this with him, has been this mean. He missed it so goddamn much.  _ You had your hands squeezing my throat, and you thought that was helpful? _ George lets a pained cry escape his lips as his back arches up from the mattress. Dream speaking down to him like this… It’s more erotic than it should be. He stares down across the bed towards Dream, and his legs spread further apart when he notes how the younger man is leaning on the footboard of the bed, balanced on his elbows, surveying him.  _ You haven’t changed, then, in these days. _ Two days, eight hours, two minutes.  _ You’re still too stupid to do anything except follow my orders and whine like a bitch. _ George’s heart feels like it’s breaking, like it’s being squeezed by an icy claw until it pops. The way Dream looks at him is downright  _ cruel, _ but there’s a sparkle in those jade irises that betrays love, George swears he sees it-  _ I’d say that all you’re made for is taking my cock, but you can’t do that anymore, now, can you? _ It’s a rhetorical question, one that George knows he best not answer.  _ Y’know, ‘cause you killed me. _

“I didn’t kill you Dream, please-” George’s face feels hot. Besides the blush spread across his cheeks resulting from how Dream watches him work himself over through his boxers, he can feel warm tears drip out from the corners of his eyes and onto his smooth skin. “I didn’t, I wouldn’t, please, Dream-”

_ ‘Please-’ _ Dream raises the pitch of his voice as he mocks George, wringing his translucent hands in front of him with a sadistic smirk on his face.  _ You’re begging? And for what, George, for what? _ George throws his head back into the pillow with a broken moan as he increases the pressure on his arousal until it  _ burns _ and his body screams at him to rip his hand away.  _ Answer me. _ Dream growls out the order, his low voice traveling across the bed and slithering up George’s body until it wraps around his neck and holds him down against the bed.

“I want you… I want you, Dream, I want you, I want you, I want y-”

_ Shut your fucking mouth. _

And George goes silent, clamping his top row of teeth down on his lower lip until his canines pierce the skin. His mouth floods with the taste of iron, and he can hear Dream’s derisory laughter rake its sharp nails down his body. “Dream…” All George can taste is iron, and it brings the memory of Dream’s death back. The pungent metallic odor filling George’s senses, the feeling of Dream’s skin growing cold under his touch…

_ Look at me, George. _ And the older man obeys, pushing himself up on an elbow so he can stare down the length of the bed into Dream’s eyes.  _ Stop touching. Hands off what’s mine, now. _ There’s a ‘But-’ that flares up in the back of George’s head, a tendril of smoke that curls up from some kindling, so close to igniting, but he douses the fire before it can start.  _ Be a good boy for me, sunshine. It’s the least you can do after causing my death. _ George chooses to block out Dream’s last sentence; he’ll focus on the ‘sunshine’ that passes through Dream’s see-through lips on an exhale, see how the corner of his mouth quirks up as he says it, feel how the word travels towards him and brushes over his face like a cool breeze. Pine and lime travel with the wind.

“Sunshine.” George echoes, and he pulls his hand away. An ache starts to pulse away between his thighs but he tries to ignore it as best as possible by gazing into Dream’s eyes. They’re not opaque, not alive, but they come close. Not emerald green, more like the swamp water he’s chased after Dream in, where he can see his hand a few inches into the water, but no more past that. Looking into Dream’s eyes like this, it helps George to strengthen his belief that Dream is truly there in front of him - because he is, he  _ is, _ he  _ has _ to be - because Dream’s fading in and out of reality slows to a halt, and he’s there.

_ So good for me… _ Dream’s smile has lost its malice, and he moves soundlessly on top of the footboard, perching on top of it with rehearsed balance.  _ Such a shame that you’re only ever this good for me when I’m dead. _ George’s pink lips twist into a pout, his still bloody lower lip jutting out.  _ You were always such a brat for me when I was really there. _

“You are…” George says it with an ounce of hurt tainting his words; almost as if he’s convincing himself that Dream is real. Because he is. Dream is real, he’s here, he’s the reason for George’s throbbing erection and the reason tears fall from his dark eyes. Dream is the reason George’s heart is swelling and breaking simultaneously. Dream is real. “You’re really here now, Dreamie.” The nickname falls from his bloody mouth, it’s unintentional and a result of George falling deeper into delirium.

_ Okay. _ Dream doesn’t confirm nor deny George’s claim. He clambers closer to the tangible boy on the bed, though, looming over him with an imposing presence. George gasps, moves his hands to grab at Dream and pull him close, but he’s stopped. Not by motions, not even by words, just by a simple glare from Dream. Instantly his hands shoot down to his sides, and he’s grasping at the meat of his thighs, desperate for something to busy his hands with. Dream just laughs at him with contempt, and it stabs icicles into George’s very soul. Icicles, daggers, swords, and even arrows, just like the one he’d shot Dream with days ago. Two days eight hours, and twenty-two minutes ago.  _ Wanna touch, hm? _ George nods, unsure if Dream would give him permission to speak, and unsure if even permission had been granted, he’d be able to get the words out.  _ I do, too. _ George’s eyes are open wide, the whites of them clearly visible from outside lighting as he stares up at Dream and watches his hand float closer to his own body. His breath catches in his throat like skin on a thorn as Dream’s hand inches closer and closer until there’s no distance between their forms. Dream’s fingers ghost over the prominent outline of George’s cock in his boxers, and George waits with baited breath for the stimulation to wash over him, feather-light and teasing, but nothing comes. His hips twitch against the mattress, cramps building up in his muscles from the tension and difficulty of holding back from bucking up into Dream’s pellucid fingers.  _ But I can’t. _

It makes George want to cry even harder. He feels guilty - he is guilty, isn’t he? - and desperate and he wants to scream in frustration until his throat is raw. He wants Dream, needs him, but he can’t have him. “I’m so sorry-” When he makes eye contact with Dream again, he shudders through a sob, and the tears pour harder. Dream’s visage blurs as the tears cloud his vision, and George thinks he’s fully stopped breathing with how the lump in his throat is making his oxygen intake infinitely more difficult. “Dream, please, I’m sorry, I never should’ve done it, never should’ve shot you-” There’s something in Dream’s face, sheer like gossamer, that softens. His jawline isn’t as pronounced, his haughtiness fades, and his contempt ebbs away like the waves in low tide.

_ I know you are, baby. _ George chokes out another sob; the burden of bearing the term of endearment when he knows he doesn’t deserve it places too much weight on his shoulders.  _ I understand. You feel bad, feel guilty, I get it. _ Dream smiles at him, pearlescent white teeth glinting with an artificial light George knows this world is incapable of producing.  _ How could you not feel guilty when this is what you did to me? _ As George continues to rest his eyes on Dream’s image, he watches the blonde’s smile shift from sugary to cloying. Dream tilts his head back and George watches in horror as the protrusion of a pickaxe, glowing with enchantments, bursts through Dream’s throat. It’s gone in a flash with only a gaping, bleeding hole in its wake, but the short duration of time the weapon was exposed to him doesn’t make the traumatic memory any less intense to suffer through. He’s brought back to when Dream died, he’s brought back to the stench and the sight and the terror. When Dream lets his head drop back down to once again look into George’s eyes, the living man sees the blood that had pooled in Dream’s mouth drip out over his chin. The fluid runs down his skin in scarlet rivulets until it beads on his chin. The droplets fall, and George swears to any and all higher powers that he can feel the warm splash of it against his bare chest. It makes his nerves all tie up in knots. He’s chanting out apologies as if the rhythmic regrets can bring Dream back. The quicker his tears fall, though, the quicker the hole in Dream’s throat closes up, and the quicker the blood on his chin loses its color until it becomes like water and evaporates.  _ You’re crying. _

“‘M so sorry, please, I need you here.” George’s eyes are lined with rouge and swollen from how long he’s been crying. “To apologize, to hold, to touch-”

_ You still want to touch. _ Dream is emotionless when he speaks.  _ Then touch yourself. Not like I’ll ever be able to do it again. _

“Dream?”

_ You’ll do it exactly like I would, though. Give yourself the illusion that I’m with you, or whatnot. You’ll follow my orders since that’s all you’re good for, and you’ll be on your best behavior. _

“Dream…”

_ Does that sound good, sunshine? Just ‘cause you killed me doesn’t mean I’ll overstep any boundaries. _ Dream leans closer and George swears he can feel Dream’s breath ghosting over his face, cool and minty.  _ I’d never do something terrible to you. _

The dig at George that Dream throws into his words… George recognizes it, acknowledges it silently, and represses it. He doesn’t want to think about how he betrayed his lover and led him to his death. “It sounds good.”

_ Then start by taking off your boxers. _ Dream sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed to give George some more room, much to the brunette’s dismay. He blushes at Dream’s order despite his best efforts to remain calm, and Dream scoffs - though it’s more on the light-hearted side of things.  _ C’mon, George, it’s nothing I haven’t seen or played with before. _ The way Dream says ‘played with’ makes heat start to pool in George’s stomach. He says it like George is a tool, a toy, just something for him to use and discard when he sees fit. George loves it, he misses when that was the case in Dream’s lifetime. He misses the moments where he and Dream would fight their way through a fierce battle that culminated in George pinned against some surface, either natural or manmade. They’d travel silently to a village or to a hastily built hut - anywhere with a bed - just so Dream could stake his claim on George. He’d laugh at him for losing their fight, call him a useless toy, and pound into him until the older man’s thighs shook violently. Sometimes, Dream had even wasted a strength potion on himself just to be able to hold George down with more force, and leaves bruises on his hips that would last longer.  _ Now, George. _

Dream’s voice and the way patience is slowly flowing out of it brings George back from the past. He nods, though the movement is shaky, and fixes his stare on Dream’s diaphanous face. His thumbs, with their nails bitten down to the quick, slip into his boxers by hooking around the elastic waistband. He pulls them down in one swift motion, lifting his hips up from the mattress to make the slide easier. He knows Dream would want them to be taken all the way off, knows from experience that Dream likes him best (in the bedroom) when he’s bare and all exposed. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, a little bit of shifting around and leaning until he’s letting his boxers fall gently on top of the pile of his other clothes. As he sits back up against the headboard, his thighs start to close together, trying to protect some of his dignity. He loves this feeling, sure, but that doesn’t make it any less humiliating. He’ll resist the temptation to pull his thighs apart and display himself for Dream -  _ Stop hiding from me. _ \- and the resistance crumbles as easy as sand. The muscles of his legs seem to have a mind of their own, because they twitch as they try to keep their position defending George’s modesty. The sienna-eyed man won’t let his weakening muscles win out over his desire to please Dream, though, so he uses his hands to grip his thighs and pry them apart, bony fingers squeezing into pallid flesh. Without anything to cover himself even slightly, George becomes all too aware of a chill that’s settled in the one-room house. It tickles his skin, makes him wriggle and squirm. He keeps his gaze trained on Dream, still perched on the footboard, because if his eyes drop any lower, he’ll see his own embarrassingly hard arousal.

Dream seems to have no issue with staring George down everywhere, though, marking him up with his eyes alone. George’s chocolate eyes are fixated on Dream’s crystalline eyes, the irises nearly fully blacked out from dilated pupils. He sees how Dream’s gaze rakes over his body, sees how it stops around George’s center. The older man knows exactly what he’s looking at, and there’s something akin to a sick sense of pride that courses through George’s veins like adrenaline. He’s got half a mind to show off, arching his back and spreading his thighs farther apart. He wants - needs - Dream to see all of him, to praise him and shame him all at once.  _ So cute… _ George preens at the praise, his back bowing even further. He presents himself to Dream like he’s just some plaything to claim, heavy eyelids drooping dangerously close to shut. George stares at Dream with wide eyes and his mouth in a pout, waiting for the blonde to praise him even more. But no other words leave Dream’s transparent lips, and his eyes stay unmoved, trained on George’s cock. Dream is smirking as he stares at it, all flushed pink and leaking precum and curved up towards George’s growling stomach.  _ You’re all wet for me, baby? _ There’s a sinister laughter that ends Dream’s sentence that has George’s blood continuing to abandon his brain and flow down his body. Dream’s raised inflection on the end of the sentence had indicated a question, but George knows any words he tries to produce will be overwhelmed by a shaky moan.  _ I know what you want. _ Of course Dream knows, he’s the only person to know George even better than the brunette himself, both inside and out.  _ Answer me and I’ll show you a little bit of mercy. _

“Fuck-” It’s not an answer, but it’s the most controlled noise George has any ability to let out. “Yes, you’re right,” George is so hard it hurts, and his fingers are likely to leave bruises on his thighs with how hard they knead into them, searching for something to busy themselves with that isn’t his own aching dick. “You’re right, Dream.”

_ And what am I right about? _

George keens low in his throat, arched back finally given a moment of rest as he nearly starts to curl in on himself from mortification. It’s embarrassing, to say it. It’s humiliating, and it makes it so much hotter. From his spot sat back against the headboard, he hooks his right arm under his right knee to pull his leg back towards his chest, trying to spread his thighs even farther, farther apart until they cramp from the strain. His head falls back for the first time as his eyes flutter shut, hitting the wooden wall with a dull thunk. The moment only lasts a handful of fleeting seconds, though, because George knows a look directly into Dream’s eyes is the best way to get the man to give George what he wants. His eyes lock onto Dream’s, the shiny irises looking like shards of lime stained glass, as his dry lips part. “‘M so wet for you, Dreamie…” George knows a lot about the art of manipulation. It had started when he was young and trying to sneak his way to the top of his class, but it never had results as lovely as these ones when he used the strength on Dream. “Look at me, I’m dripping for you.” George’s doe eyes and feigned innocence have their desired effect on Dream, who gets up from the top of the footboard and travels towards the front of the bed where George is sitting. There’s no sound of footfalls as Dream gets closer, and his legs seem as if they aren’t moving, like he’s floating over instead of walking.

_ That’s a good boy. _ Dream grins down at him wolfishly, animalistically.  _ Touch yourself. Nothing more than your fingers. _ George mumbles out his thanks to Dream and nods his head excitedly, fingers twitching as he decides what to do with them. His right hand travels from his leg to his chest, coming up to rub at his nipple with his thumb. He circles the rosy bud with his jagged nail, and starts to pinch at it until it hardens and perks up. The stimulation has George’s breath going labored, his mouth hanging open, left panting. With his left hand, he reaches between his legs, dragging a single outstretched finger up the underside of his cock. It leads him to have a full-body shudder, hips canting up off the mattress to chase the fleeting touch. It’s a challenge to remember that only his fingers are allowed to ghost over his skin, so much harder to control the touches when they’re actually coming from him. When Dream teases him like this, it’s easier to handle. When Dream teases him…it’s a sensation he misses, one he will never get again. He glances at Dream, lowers his eyes until they rest on the blonde’s see-through hands. As George’s thumb starts to rub circles against the head of his cock, he’ll let his focus on Dream’s hands try to warp his mind into thinking Dream’s fingers really are the ones touching him. Dream’s hands… Sunkissed, warm, strong. His fingers are thicker than George’s, longer, too. There’s more power behind each of their movements, more control and more precision. They have such a sense of control over George’s mind and body… George’s breathing quickens until he’s panting out quiet, breathy moans. With his mouth hanging open, there’s nothing George can do to combat the buildup of saliva inside his mouth; drool slowly drips down, painting a glistening sheen over his chin as his tunnel-vision deepens on Dream’s hands and how they move -  _ they move? _ \- closer to his body. Dream’s hand hovers over George’s, mimics the shape, and as he swipes his thumb across the air, George feels compelled to follow the action with his own finger. His thumbnail catches on the sensitive flesh of his head, and George chokes out a strangled cry of pain. Dream just laughs from up above him, continuing to glide his translucent thumb through the air. George knows he can stop himself from moving, but he doesn’t want to. It’s almost like Dream is touching him, like this, if he lets his ears overflow with the sound of Dream’s malicious laughter and let his movements blindly obey what Dream instructs just centimeters above him.

“Dream-” George’s spit-slick chin angles up towards the sky as he chokes down a broken cry. If he’s too loud, then Sapnap will come in all concerned, and Dream… Dream probably wouldn’t want to see Sapnap - his killer. Dream would leave. Dream would leave, and George can’t have that. He raises his right hand up from off his chest to in front of his mouth, and he clamps his teeth down on the skin of the back of his hand. He sinks his teeth into the flesh until he’s more focused on the stinging pain than the pleasure his left thumb is giving him. It stops him from letting loud moans escape into the atmosphere. “More-” He begs, the sound muffled by his hand. “Please, more, need more-”

_ Fuck your hand, then. _ Dream orders, jade eyes glinting with an otherworldly glow. He’s thriving like this, George thinks, with power and control and vivacy… Almost like he’s alive.  _ I doubt you’re good enough to please yourself, but it’s all I’ll let you have. _ George looks at him, brown eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. There’s a deep-seated ball of humiliation settled low in his stomach. Dream’s sneering, his doubt in George, the way he views the living man as something that only knows how to get fucked… It’s exhilarating. George’s cheeks glow as red-hot as the lava pools he’s traversed over; they burn with shame.  _ Well? Aren’t you going to thank me? I’m giving you what you ask for. _

“Right,” There’s a weakness to George’s voice, a waver in it that resembles the similar quiver of his hands. “Thank you.” George has never been averse to pain, but the sharp sting of Dream’s hands against his bare skin during a punishment is something he  _ likes _ whereas the dry sliding of skin against skin is just uncomfortable. He lets his jaw unclench and his right hand falls free from its prison in between his teeth, and he lifts his left hand up to his mouth, leans over and spits into it, trying to slick up his hand as best as possible. The saliva in his hand is warm, a little sticky, and makes him feel a little gross, but any unease leaves him when his hand curls around him, and that sticky warmth of his own spit coats his straining cock. His head rolls back as he starts to slide his hand up and down his throbbing erection, the feeling of finally being stimulated closer to how he really wants near overwhelming in the best way.

_ What are you doing? _ Dream chides.  _ Stop moving your hand. _

“But-” George’s tear-filled eyes looked pained, the corners of his swollen lips downturned in a pout. “You said-”

_ I said for you to fuck your fist. _ Dream looks unamused, unimpressed.  _ You’re going to do things the way I told you or you’re not going to do them at all. _ George lowers his head bashfully, stilled hand tightening around his dick.  _ For someone so bright, you can really be so fuckin’ stupid. _ George keens at Dream’s words and the way they prick his skin like thorns. The brunette nods in understanding and slowly cants his hips off the bed. There’s a sigh that rises in his throat but dies before it can leave his mouth, his eyelids fluttering shut at the feeling of thrusting up into his heated hand. It’s hot, it’s wet, it’s intoxicating, and it’s still not enough for George but he’ll have to make do. His hips stutter upwards weakly, lacking rhythm and control. There’s no sense of pace with him, just frantic movements that leave his thighs shaking.  _ You’re really not good at this. _ George glares in the direction of Dream’s voice, the features of the blonde’s already see-through face blurring further from the tears in George’s eyes. The brown-eyed man opens his mouth in protest, but denial would be a fruitless effort; Dream isn’t exactly wrong.  _ No wonder you always got called such a bottom, goddamn… _

“Piss off, Dream, you’re being a dick-” George stops his movements, just sits there and squints angrily at Dream with his hand still wrapped tight around his cock.

_ They hated Jesus because he spoke the truth… _ Dream mutters with a smirk.

“I don’t believe in that shit.” George responds with the sentence he always does whenever Dream mentions Jesus or God or other religious shit. “You wouldn’t have been taken from me if it was real.” George hasn’t ever said that before. It’s a heavier statement, one that carries too much gravity and a morbid tenderness for the situation George is in.

_ That last part’s different. _ Of course Dream has to comment on it, his translucent tongue poking through translucent teeth.  _ Wanna sweet talk me, now, yeah? Buttering me up so you can get what you want? _

No, that’s not right. George’s guilt is eating away at him, and honestly it’s starting to become more of a physical symptom than his arousal is. He needs to change that, so he’ll play into what Dream is suggesting. “Maybe,” He’ll look up at Dream with wide, innocent eyes. “Is it working?”

Dream responds with a tiny scoff, but any anger he might be trying to exhibit is betrayed by the smile on his face.  _ I’ll be nice. _ The smile is so sweet, so demure, and George knows it’s the exact opposite energy that Dream has coursing through his mind.  _ Touch yourself however you want. Do whatever, just tell me when you get close. _ George doesn’t want to consider what might happen to him when he does start to get close. That’s not an issue for the George that’s living in the present. His hand, from its time just sitting there, had become significantly less lubricated with spit, so he’ll remove it quickly and bring it back to his mouth. His tongue licks over his palm and around his fingers, leaves them shiny with spit. There’s a taste that’s vaguely salty, a mix of sweat and precum, that enters his mouth when his fingers do, but it’s nothing he’s not accustomed to. With his hand significantly wet, he’ll lower it and once again curl it around himself. He wastes no time before his hand starts an intense pace working over himself, the slick sounds of skin against skin joining George’s heavy breathing as the only sounds in the house. His back is braced against the headboard, so he doesn’t need to support himself with his right hand, leaving it free to travel across his body. He tweaks both of his nipples, a small bit of pain shocking his nerves as he plays around with the hardened buds, and then he brings the hand down to his cock.

It’s an intoxicating feeling, having both hands giving himself the attention he so desperately craves. His left hand keeps the fast rhythm up and down his shaft and his right hand curls over his tip, palm circling the head. The two types of stimulation have him whining out breathy curses, have his thighs quivering, have his deep brown eyes rolling back in his head. His cock looks pretty like this, Dream says, all flushed a rosy pink and leaking all over George’s hands, so cute. The praise Dream lets him have mixed with the stimulation on the most sensitive part of his body is making the feeling in his stomach tighten even more. The smoldering of his body ignites; he’s surrounded by flame. And when he closes his eyes, he can almost delude himself into thinking Dream is touching him.

It’s not exactly the same, though, just like before. George’s fingers are more delicate. Calloused, sure, from mining and building, but he’s always been more careful about keeping his skin soft and well kept. Dream has told him before that he has ‘piano player fingers’ from the time he caught George tapping on a jukebox while listening to a new disc he’d stumbled upon. Dream’s fingers, though; they’re thicker and longer than George’s, of course. And his hands were warmer, his skin soft but weathered; he’d always done more mining and building and exploring and adventuring than George had. It’s George’s fantasies that Dream really is the one touching him that has him sprinting towards the edge of the cliff of his climax. He’s teetering dangerously over the edge, balancing on a single foot and reaching out into the empty sky in front of him. “C-Close-” He chokes out the strangled word as his eyes shoot open, frantically searching for Dream’s own eyes as a way to ground himself. “Close, so close, please, Dreamie, let me-”

_ Hands off. _ Dream instructs, and George lets out a desperate cry as he rips his hands away from his body, holding them up above his head - slender wrists crossed ever so delicately - to stop him from even getting near his cock again, pleading with his own self-restraint to let himself listen to Dream. His hips twitch, sending a tiny, aborted thrust upwards to chase friction he knows he won’t receive. George is shuddering, so close to curling in on himself, legs shaking as he fights the urge to snap them shut.  _ Now do the same thing again. _ George’s teary eyes are staring at Dream in disbelief. He’s already so damn close, he’d likely only be able to go a few more seconds before he felt the urge to cum again.

“I’m already close, Dream, I can’t-”

_ You can. You will. _

“But-”

_ Do you need to say it? _ Dream doesn’t have to specify the question for George to know what he’s asking. He’s asking if George needs to use the safeword they’ve had in place since they started getting physical with each other - cornflower, because it’s George’s favorite type (since he can truly see it). Dream’s crystal green eyes have softened.

“No, no, I’m alright.”

_ Then get to it. _ And George follows the order with pleasure, right hand stuck to his side and left hand once again reaching for his aching dick. He’s gentler with the touches, more restrained, not wanting to come to the edge too quickly. He thumbs over the head of his cock gingerly, not applying too much pressure. His other fingers trace over the veins of his cock that they can reach with the same light touch his thumb has. It’s like he’s teasing himself - teasing, just like Dream would - mocking himself for how he came close to release so quickly. As his deft fingers run over his arousal, Dream’s voice floods his ears.  _ Just like that… You’re so close to falling apart, and over what? Just a few touches? Pathetic, Georgie. Embarrassing, cutie. You’re really only good at sex when you’re my pliant little fucktoy, hm? _ George slaps his right hand over his mouth with enough force to leave red marks when his fingers hit his cheek to muffle a loud moan that bubbles up out of the depths of his throat.  _ Shame you had to quiet yourself… Wouldn’t want Sapnap comin’ in here. What if he tried to kill me again? _ Dream reaches out towards George’s face, his translucent thumb and index finger resting an inch below George’s throat. As he raises them just a centimeter, George tilts his chin up, imagines that Dream is really touching him.  _ Would you stop him? Would you protect me? _ George stops with the gentle touches and begins to stroke himself once more.  _ Or would you let him kill me, just like last time? _ Shame runs like lava down George’s back. It burns him, it sears him, it scars him.

“Dream, please, s-so close-”

_ Then stop. _

“Fuck-” George knew it was going to happen, but it didn’t make the visceral reaction of his body screaming at him to let him finish any less troubling to deal with. He curses again, more stress behind the syllable, trying to grind against the bed in his seated position to relieve himself at least the slightest bit.

_ I want you to fuck yourself open on your fingers. If you can do that, I’ll let you cum. _ George locks eyes with Dream, solid mocha meeting hazy emerald. The promise of getting his desired release matters more to him than how vulnerable he’d be.

“How do you want me?” The way George asks the question, it’s as if he believes he’s actually prepping himself for Dream.

_ Face down, ass up. _ George nods, slowly stretching out his limbs to be ready to get into the position Dream had demanded.  _ That’s not all, _ Dream adds as George settles into the position, back arched as he balances on his forearms and knees, facing the footboard.  _ You’re going to choke yourself. _ George’s only response is a sputtered attempt at a ‘What?!’  _ Oh, _ Dream decides to say as an afterthought.  _ And you’re going to cum untouched. _

George is floating in ecstasy, weightless in a pool of pleasure. The task that seems impossible to him lessens in severity as he focuses on how turned on he feels. “Alright.” He responds, and that’s the only word he needs to say. Without any sort of manufactured lube in the house, he’s pretty shit out of luck. His own spit will have to do. It’ll sting a little, undoubtedly, but both parties know George is no stranger to pain and he’s certainly not against it. Shifting some weight to his right forearm, he lifts his left arm until his fingers can reach his mouth. His lips stretch out around his pointer, middle, and ring fingers, the flushed pink of his lips paling as he stuffs the digits into his mouth. His tongue can’t do too much with the limited room in the wet heat of his mouth, but he still does what he can to coat his fingers with his own spit. He loses himself for a moment from the feeling of fingers in his mouth, pushing them deeper until they reach the back of his throat and he’s gagging, shoulders tensing as he recoils. He keeps his fingers in his mouth, though, tongue curling around them as they get wetter and wetter. By the time he pulls them from his mouth, the pads of his fingers are slightly pruned. George spreads them apart, watches as the shiny strings of spit stretch between them until they break. He reaches behind him, now, having enough experience in this department to perfectly guide his hand to where it needs to go.

His middle finger circles his hole, pushing against it without breaching the entrance, and his breath hitches in his throat. He can feel his hole flutter around the slight pressure of his finger, practically trying to suck it in. Dream’s given him the go-ahead previously, so there’s really no reason to wait. He slowly starts to push his finger in, the pink muscle opening around his finger. It’s not the easiest slide, not the most painless. There’s a bit of discomfort as George pushes past the initial tightness. Nothing too painful, nothing that burns or stings, but there’s an undeniable pressure that he can’t seem to ease yet. His toes curl as he continues to slide in his finger until it’s buried to the hilt. Slowly, he starts to move it. All he does is crook it slightly, prod around a bit, trying to loosen himself up instead of going straight to an attempt at pleasuring himself. The pressure starts to ease eventually, and George lets out a pleased sigh. His index finger makes the move to join its neighboring digit, sliding past his rim into tight heat. With two fingers inside of him, he starts to scissor them, and the first hints of pleasure start to run down his body. A chill seeps into the room, goosebumps raising over his pale skin. His knees tremble against the bed until he can regain his steadiness, and it’s then that he remembers another part of the rules Dream had set.

Truthfully, he’s a little lost as to how he’s supposed to do this. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to safely choke himself - it’s always been Dream that does it to him - but there’s a voice in the back of his mind, his own, that tells him he doesn’t care about safety. He knows he can’t directly die doing it, he’d only go unconscious and then the dangerous pressure would cease. He decides on taking the weight his right forearm has to bear and shift it to his elbow so his arm has a bit more room to move. His arm is shaking, a deep dip in the mattress forming where his elbow presses into it. He curls his right hand into a ‘C’ shape and lowers his head until his throat sits directly in the opening his hand had created. His fingers wrap around his neck and give a tentative squeeze. It provides enough of a distraction from the bit of discomfort George was still feeling, and he uses the new euphoric sensation as motivation to slip his third finger inside himself. It’s a slow process as he works the last finger inside, but once they’re all in, George swears he’s on cloud nine. The hand around his neck strengthens its grip as his fingers start to pump into himself. George can already feel the effects of it; his oxygen supply is obviously getting cut off, his pulse is thundering in his neck and he feels it right in the junction between his thumb and forefinger, and his lower lip starts to get a sensation like pins and needles as if it had fallen asleep. His fingers explore inside of him - not as deep as Dream could reach, and that’s a feeling George knows his mind can’t replicate, which is unfortunate - and he searches for his prostate as the pressure on his throat becomes close to unbearable. He has to stop squeezing and lift his head up to cough. It sounds raspy, like he’s coming down with a cold. He looks up towards Dream, who had migrated back to the foot of the bed, facing George.

_ Sunshine… _ Dream sounds sad, even a little reproachful, looking down at George with pitying eyes.  _ Both sides of your neck - esophagus, really - that’s where you have to put the pressure. Not directly on the front, okay? _ Dream’s tone is serious. George wants to touch him, craves some sort of physical contact, and it’s almost like he controls Dream’s motions this time with the way Dream’s hand reaches out towards George for a few seconds. It stops before it gets too close, and the blonde lowers it with a sigh.  _ Focus your strength on your fingers on the side of your throat instead of your palm on the front of it. _

George nods, not trusting himself to speak without it causing him pain. His fingers pumping away inside of him are a good distraction as he takes Dream’s words to heart and fixes his hand position around his neck. This time, when he squeezes, it’s pleasurable. Dream’s fingers are longer, thicker, so he can’t pretend it’s Dream choking him, but the sensation is nearly the same. He gets a little lightheaded, but it’s the giddy pleasure of arousal instead of a dangerous lack of oxygen. This kind of choking - the safe kind, he notes - fills his heart with joy and sends more blood rushing down to his cock, if that’s even possible. George is hard, impossibly so, knows that if he looks down he’d see his cock hanging heavy between his legs, unattended and flushed an angry red. His fingers are reaching as deep as possible, and finally, they brush against his prostate. George throws his head back in a way so instantaneous it seems like instinct, and releases a moan that’s impossible to stifle. He can only hope Sapnap somehow didn’t hear it or just chooses to ignore it. He loosens the grip around his throat to intake more oxygen, and this time he can do it without coughing, without pain. His fingers continue to push against his prostate, making his muscles tense up. He can feel the familiarity of his ass clenching down around his fingers, tightening and keeping them inside. The stimulation isn’t as much as it could be - isn’t Dream - but it’s still bringing him closer to climax. He needs Dream to talk to him. He needs Dream.

And as if Dream is an angel sent down from heaven to answer his prayers, his mouth opens.  _ You look delicious like this. Flushed, panting, acting like a slut for nothing but your own fingers. That desperate for something to fill you up you’ll take your own hand. Not as good as me, right? I’m the only one that can fill you up perfectly. I’m made for you, made to take you. Buried deep inside you, remember, George? We fit so perfectly… _ George can tell that Dream’s last sentence had been uttered out in the past tense. It hurts, too much to think about.  _ You’d look better with my dick splitting you open, but this is still a pretty sight. You blush so prettily, I wish you were able to see exactly how cute you look all red. Your cheeks, your ears, your nose. Your neck, your chest, even your cute little cock. All flushed, all for me. I’d mark you up, if I could. I like it when you’ve got my marks on you. You like it too, like being claimed by me. Purple and red all over your skin. I’d bloom gardens on you. The bruises would fade - turn blue for a little, just part of the healing process. They’d go from alliums and roses to cornflowers, your favorite. _

“Please-” George croaks out the word, vocal cords causing vibrations against the hand wrapped around his neck. His fingers have increased their strength, fucking into himself with a near bruising force against his prostate. “Need-” He can barely get a single word out, cutting himself off with whines, gasps, and moans. George is aching from how badly he needs to cum, shaking against the bed and coming all too close to toppling down from the shaky supports of knees and an elbow. “Gotta-”

_ Hold out just a bit longer. _ It’s not a request, it’s a demand. Tears flow from George’s eyes freely with how much effort it’s taking to stave off his orgasm without anything to touch himself. He can’t even squeeze a hand around his base to physically stop himself from cumming, that’d count as touching himself, and Dream wouldn’t like it.  _ Remember yourself like this, how hard you are for me, how wet. Fucking yourself open with nothing but your own filthy spit to aid you. _ George’s cheeks are hot to the touch, damp with tears as they trek down his face. They collect on his chin until they collect enough weight to fall towards the bed and splash against the cotton comforter.  _ Always so desperate for me. You’re mine. Since the day we met, you’re mine. _ George’s whines are increasing in volume, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.  _ George? _

“Mmh…”

_ Cum. _   


George’s world goes stark white. His orgasm washes over him with the strength of tidal waves he can remember chasing after Dream through. “A-Ah, ngh, Dream, Dream, Dream-” He’s whispering Dream’s name repeatedly, chanting it like it’s a prayer to the God he doesn’t believe in. Thick ropes of cum shoot out and land on the sheets, his stomach, his chest, some even landing on the hand on his neck. His release is mind-shattering, George feels as if he’s been splintered apart like a piece of glowstone, exploding in a flash of light and becoming nothing but a pile of dust. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he can see an immense array of colors behind his eyelids. It’s almost as if he can see them for real, like he can tell the difference between the reds and greens that flash in his darkened field of vision, like he can finally discern what’s purple and what’s just blue, like he can see pink as something more than gray. He removes the hand from his neck, lets his arm fall back on the bed for more support. His fingers slowly slip out of his ass, his hole trying to clench around them and keep them inside. His left arm comes back near his chest before resting on the bed so he can have another limb to balance himself. If he didn’t make those adjustments to his position, he’d have crashed against the bed. Trembling, quivering legs weren’t the easiest things to poise himself on. His breathing is far from normal, just raggedy pants and gulps for breath, with the occasional whisper of Dream’s name. Dream… Dream had been here, he figured out the way to get Dream back. “I love you.” The three words tumble from his swollen lips before he has the chance to swallow them down. He’s facing down towards the bed when his eyes slowly blink open. He’s ready to look up at Dream, greet his lover with a smile. He lifts his head up, his fucked out expression with glassy eyes and a lazy grin anticipating to meet Dream’s own face. He stares towards where he last remembers seeing Dream’s glassy form.

And his world comes tumbling down. Dream is gone, no trace of his hair or his eyes or his freckles or his smiles or his clothes or even the pine and lime scent he carried anywhere. Dream is gone. A sob tears its way from George’s throat, pained and guttural. The tear tracks on his face had started to dry, but they were flooded once again with a fresh wave of tears, scalding hot and angry. Betrayed, frightened, desolate, resentful. His arms finally give out, and he crumples up in on himself as he falls against the soiled mattress, damp and sticky with his cum and his tears and his spit. His sobs are loud, and he can’t bring himself to care if Sapnap hears, or even barges in. It doesn’t matter that George’s cries are muffled by the blankets pressed against his mouth as he lays face down on the bed. Nothing can quell the heartache and longing he feels as he tries to chase his fading memories - fantasies, though he doesn’t know it - of Dream, his lost love.

**Author's Note:**

> i am sorry. i am so, so very sorry. uhhhhh if y'all have anything to say maybe possibly potentially, i love receiving comments !!
> 
> have a great day/night, y'all!  
> xoxo, ulysses


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